The compliant manager
volunteered to ask some other gentleman, housed on the inferior
upper storey (which was lit throughout with gas), to change rooms.
Hearing this, and being quite willing to exchange a small bedchamber
for a large one, Henry volunteered to be the other gentleman.
The excellent American shook hands with him on the spot. 'You are
a cultured person, sir,' he said; 'and you will no doubt understand
the decorations.'
Henry looked at the number of the room on the door as he opened it.
The number was Fourteen.
Tired and sleepy, he naturally anticipated a good night's rest.
In the thoroughly healthy state of his nervous system, he slept
as well in a bed abroad as in a bed at home. Without the slightest
assignable reason, however, his just expectations were disappointed.
The luxurious bed, the well-ventilated room, the delicious tranquillity
of Venice by night, all were in favour of his sleeping well.
He never slept at all. An indescribable sense of depression and
discomfort kept him waking through darkness and daylight alike.
He went down to the coffee-room as soon as the hotel was astir,
and ordered some breakfast.
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